


Chance Meeting

by Tanaqui



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-01
Updated: 2005-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Ruling Steward and his sons, the personal is the political and private acts can have public consequences.</p><p>Faramir's odd behaviour on his return from his first month as Captain of the Ithilien Rangers troubles Denethor, both as a father and as Ruling Steward. An unexpected meeting in a place neither thinks to find the other only adds to the tension - and results in an order that, ten years later, will have significant consequences in the War of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Steward

**Author's Note:**

> This story refers to several stars and constellations by their Quenya names: Wilwarin (butterfly) = Casseopeia; Remmirath (the netted stars) = the Pleiades or Seven Sisters; Menelvagor (the swordsman of the sky) = Orion; and Nénar (flame of adamant), which does not seem to have been identified unambiguously with any of our stars. The Pole Star is, of course, the star (currently Polaris) used by navigators to find North.

  
**  
_February 3008_   
**   


Boromir’s report had been brief, since not much of note had taken place in Osgiliath and Anorien over the past months. Now Imrahil’s account was taking little longer, covering only the usual skirmishes with the Corsairs in the Bay. While his brother-in-law spoke, the Lord of Gondor glanced down the length of the table and scrutinised his younger son.

 _The boy looks tired._

Faramir was hunched forward in his chair, his hands clasped together on the table in front of him. He held himself still, but Denethor could see the tense line to his shoulders. Now he lifted his head and Denethor caught his eye. Faramir looked away hastily.

Next to him, Forlong was tapping his fat fingers impatiently. Denethor suppressed his irritation that he had to invite fools like Forlong to his Councils when they were in Minas Tirith. When Forlong came to make his report on the levies in Lossarnach, he would no doubt be as long-winded as usual. At least Imrahil and his sons were trained to be concise and precise.

Imrahil finished speaking. Denethor thanked him and then turned again to his younger son. “Let us now hear what passes in Ithilien,” he ordered.

He saw Boromir lay a reassuring hand on his brother’s arm. _Always they seek to protect him. But he is no longer a child! Last night’s choice of company showed that clearly enough. Yet it seems he still has a child’s need for indulgence._

Denethor cast his mind back to the previous evening. Faramir had been threading his knife sheath back onto his belt when the Steward was admitted to the House of Starlight. Denethor saw him glance up incuriously at the newcomer, then freeze as he recognised his father. After a moment, he deliberately relaxed and finished fastening the final buckle.

”Father.” He bowed his head in greeting.

Denethor did not bother to acknowledge the gesture. All he said, as the maid took his cloak, was, “I was told you had returned to the City. I expected you to make your report as soon as you arrived.”

It might be Faramir’s first month in charge, but Denethor knew his son was well aware of his father’s preference for receiving private reports in advance of Council meetings from Captains returning from the field, to allow him time to consider any delicate matters carefully.

Faramir flushed. “It was late and you were already at dinner with Uncle Imrahil and the others.”

“My dinner is of less importance than hearing news of Ithilien from its Captain.”

Faramir opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. Denethor could see he was debating whether, given their present location, it would anger his father more or less to offer his report now. Denethor spared him the choice.

“Since the hour is now so late, tomorrow will do,” he said curtly, moving towards the stairs.

Despite his abrupt dismissal of his son, Denethor was unable to let the matter go in his own mind. As Wilwarin welcomed him into her suite and brought him a glass of his favourite wine, he thought about the way Faramir had coolly finished fastening his belt buckle before he had acknowledged his father. Here, in the House of Starlight, the gesture seemed to say: I am your equal. We are not father and son, Steward and Captain, just men with the same needs and the same desires.

Denethor put down the barely-touched wine and allowed Wilwarin to undress him and bring him a robe. He could not help wondering if Faramir already had a favoured courtesan or if he simply chose at will from amongst the women of the House of Starlight. He did not doubt they would cluster around him as readily as the Remmirath clung together within a hand’s-breadth of proud Menelvagor. Once he himself had been so favoured.

Yet, Denethor reflected - while Wilwarin settled him on the bed and began her customary massage – when Boromir was there, Faramir also must know the pain of watching from the sidelines as the heavens revolved around the Pole Star.

“You are quiet tonight,” Wilwarin said, breaking into his thoughts, her hands working to smooth the tension from his shoulders.

Denethor shifted uneasily. “I met my son in the hall,” he said.

“Did you, my lord?” Wilwarin’s voice was neutral but Denethor felt the slight hesitation as she pressed her thumbs along his spine.

“You of the House of Starlight should be flattered that he places a visit here ahead of greeting his family on his return to the City.”

“I hope we will always provide a welcome haven for all the House of Hurin.”

Denethor rolled over abruptly and sat up, bring his face close to Wilwarin’s. “You think my son requires a haven from his own family?” he asked coldly.

Wilwarin blushed but held herself still. “My words were ill-chosen,” she admitted. There was only the slightest trembling in her voice. “But all men seek a respite from the world at times. Even you, my lord.”

Denethor subsided back on to the bed.

“Does Faramir visit often?” he asked thoughtfully.

“I am not sure, my lord. We certainly see him less often than Lord Boromir, now that he serves in Ithilien.”

Denethor tensed again as he thought about the situation in Ithilien and was once more reminded that his son had neglected to make his report his first priority.

“You are troubled?” Wilwarin asked softly. She had moved behind him and was gently massaging his temples.

“We have had poor news from Ithilien,” he answered. “I thought Faramir would come and speak of it with me as soon as he might. It is his duty as Captain. I suppose it was too much to hope he would also wish to confide in me as his father.”

Why, he had asked himself, do you try to hide what is in your mind and heart from me, Faramir? Now, as the Council listened to his son’s report, he found himself asking the same question again, and adding a new one.

 _A soldier learns to take sleep whenever he might. Yet you clearly did not get much rest after we parted. What kept you awake last night? Our meeting? Or something else?_

While Faramir spoke, Denethor watched the way his son addressed his remarks to his uncle, his brother, the other staff advisers who sat at the table, the assistants and lieutenants who waited patiently around the edges of the room to be called upon as needed, or, most frequently, the top of the table. Anywhere that meant Faramir did not have to meet his father’s gaze.

He began by speaking briefly of the disposition of his troops and the findings of his scouts and the many petty skirmishes with small bands of orcs and evil Men that were the regular fare of reports from Ithilien. Occasionally he would look across at Arthad, his lieutenant in North Ithilien, for a nod to confirm some fact. Only at the end did he turn to the action four nights before.

“We had news of a large party of orcs and Haradrim travelling up the road from the Crossings at Poros,” he began.

“We have long suspected an alliance,” Denethor interrupted, even though it was not his usual practice to speak until his commanders had finished their reports. There was a stir amongst the councillors at this departure and Denethor saw Boromir sit up straighter and exchange a glance with his uncle. Not waiting for them to settle, he focused his attention on Faramir. “Do you report that the Dark Lord at last draws new strength to his armies in preparation for some greater assault? Such news should not have waited until this morning.”

“I do not bring such news,” Faramir answered firmly, meeting his father’s eyes for once. Yet apparently he was not willing to provoke a confrontation or justify his actions on returning to the city, since he turned away quickly to include the others in his remarks. “This party was not a war band,” he explained. “There were few Haradrim and most of them were mounted and well arrayed. But there were many orcs. I think the Haradrim were ambassadors, come to discuss such an alliance. Certainly the orcs were uncommonly keen to protect the Southrons when we sprang our ambush near the Bridge of the Eagles. More than that: they were reckless. They threw themselves against us as if they cared naught for their losses.”

Faramir gave a small shake of his head. Denethor, watching, knew his son must be recalling the attack in his mind’s eye as he spoke. So it had been for him when he had been a captain and given reports to his father. Sometimes it was no easy task to speak calmly when the battle had been hard and the memories were bright: the sound of blade on flesh, the reek of your enemy, the ever heavier weight of the sword in your hand.

“We slew more than we could count,” Faramir continued, “but they overran a third of our positions through sheer weight of numbers. We lost many good men.” Denethor had the numbers before him in the casualty list that Faramir had prepared: thirty-eight killed, with another eight wounded who would not fight again. He saw many around the table bow their heads for a moment in respect, only to snap them up again at his son’s next words.

Faramir’s voice rose half an octave as he said, “I have never seen orcs behave that way before. And we –.”

He stopped short. Denethor saw a strange look cross his face and that he swallowed nervously before he continued in a flat tone, “We could not stand against them, so I ordered a retreat. They did not pursue us and we were able to disengage. When we regrouped, I went myself with the scouts and found the party had continued up the road as fast they might.

“We could perhaps have harried them with archers, yet…” Again Faramir paused in his report and Denethor wondered at the uncharacteristic hesitation his son was showing. Though he had been made Captain less than a month ago, he had reported the details of actions to the Council many times and shown no such unease before.

 _He is not telling all_ , Denethor thought. _What is there to conceal?_

Faramir went on, “I did not think, my lord, that it was wise to bring them against us again and waste more of our lives in an action I felt had no chance of success. We followed them to see their course. Just ere daybreak, they reached the crossroads and turned towards Minas Morgul.”

There was silence while the Council waited for Denethor to speak. At last he looked up. Faramir had his hands flat upon the table and now returned his father’s look steadily enough. He seemed braced for an assault yet prepared to meet it head on.

“So, they will make the alliance,” Denethor told him in a cold voice. “And we will face the full might of Harad as well as Mordor. And yet you might have prevented this.” Denethor saw his son flinch. “The death of their ambassadors while under the protection of Mordor would at least have given Harad pause for thought.”

“Or strengthened still further their resolve to act against us,” Imrahil said quickly.

“If they suffer to travel with orcs, do you think their resolve is not already great enough?” Denethor countered. He shifted his gaze back to his son. “You should not have let them escape so lightly.”

“My lord, I felt it was a fight we could not win, nor even hurt the enemy enough to be worth the risk to my men,” Faramir answered. His tone was proud, almost defiant.

“So you say.”

Faramir dropped his eyes at that. “There were many… factors against us.” Denethor noticed that his son’s voice shook slightly.

 _And was one of the factors your own command, my son? Was I right to make you Captain? You are so young. But Boromir was younger when I appointed him High-Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General._

“Few of the company with me would have survived the engagement,” Faramir continued, “and we could scarcely continue to defend Ithilien if the Rangers were reduced to less than half their present strength.”

“And will all the Rangers you have left be enough to resist the might of Harad when it is allied with the Dark Lord?” Beset by his own doubts, Denethor glared down the table at his son.

“I cannot undo what is done,” Faramir said quietly. “Yet there may still be a way to disrupt the alliance. We have spoken of it before….”

  
“No!” Denethor’s voice was low but cold and warned that he would permit no argument. “It is a foolish notion and I will not entertain it.”

“My lord,” Boromir interjected. He was looking from his father to his brother with a puzzled frown. “What is this plan? My brother has not spoken of it to me and I would have us debate all the options.”

“I also, my lord,” Imrahil added. “Faramir is not foolish – or not often.” Imrahil smiled fondly at his nephew. Denethor saw that the other advisers were nodding in agreement and felt a stab of irritation that they would waste valuable time debating a notion he had already dismissed as unworkable. Only Forlong looked displeased, but Denethor knew that was simply because he resented any further delay to his own moment of glory.

“I think, my lord,” he told his brother-in-law, “you will find your nephew’s folly has been increasing of late. He certainly cannot always be trusted to fulfil his duties if he is… distracted.”

Faramir flushed. Denethor saw Imrahil’s smile fade and that he raised a questioning eyebrow at his nephew before he turned back to the Steward. “Nevertheless, my lord, I would still hear this plan.”

“Very well.” Partly because he knew it would annoy Forlong, Denethor waved a hand for Faramir to speak.

Faramir took a deep breath, apparently ordering his thoughts. “We fear that Harad will ally itself with Mordor because the Black Numenoreans have ever been willing to lend an ear to the Dark Lord,” he began. “Yet there have been times when Harad’s dealings with Gondor have been friendly, even close. And profitable to both. I have been reading the records of Ithilien before our people abandoned it and there was once much trade between our lands.”

Denethor watched his son lean forward, his eyes now shining, as he laid out his proposition.

“They offered us many commodities that were of use to us: gum and rubber, oil, spices, rare minerals. They valued what we could provide: timber, marble, salt, pottery. And our coffers benefited from the taxes we levied at the borders.”

Now he was turning his eager gaze from one adviser to another as he made his case and Denethor could see that his son’s passion was capturing their interest. “All our people wish to serve Gondor, yet the fight is costly,” he reminded them. “Soldiers must be armed and fed and paid. In abandoning Ithilien, we lost much farmland that once helped to fill our granaries and our butteries – and our tax coffers. Replacing those revenues falls heavily on our other domains.”

Faramir looked across at Hurin of the Keys for confirmation.

“My lord, it is true we now tax the Southern fiefs at the very limits of what they can bear,” Hurin said. He waved a hand and one of his assistants moved forward to bring him some papers.

The mention of taxes seemed to have finally sparked Forlong’s attention. “Indeed, my lord, I may venture to state that your taxes lie heavily on our farmers and craftsmen,” he began. “Any measure that could–.”

“Yet they are not beyond what has been deemed necessary in full Council,” Denethor said, cutting across Forlong and raising a hand to send the assistant back to his place by the wall. “We are not here today to discuss tax policy in Lossarnach.”

Denethor saw Faramir shoot Forlong a sympathetic look. _Ah, my son, you would not be so tolerant if I were to deny you equipment and supplies because I had allowed these babbling fools to put the welfare of a few farmers ahead of the defence of Gondor._

Into the short silence that followed Denethor’s remark, Faramir spoke again, continuing to press his point. “Yet in ending the trade with Harad, the Citadel lost much of the revenue that allowed us to purchase swords and shields and employ armourers,” he said. “It is hard to continue to defend a land if the pursuit of war impoverishes its people.”

He sat back and opened his hands in appeal. “Would it not work against the Dark Lord’s plans if we were to make our own approach to Harad and propose that we re-establish that trade? Surely the ties of commerce – and the greater knowledge we would each gain of the other’s lands and people – would help to bond us together against Mordor? And we could use the customs revenues to help us pay for the defence of Gondor. My lords, would it not be wise to offer safe passage through Gondor for Haradrim ships and caravans and to welcome craftsmen who wish to bring their goods and their skills to Minas Tirith?”

“And offer safe passage and welcome to Haradrim spies, who will eavesdrop in our streets and count the numbers of our companies?” Denethor’s tone was dismissive. He saw the nods and smiles of approval around the table falter and was pleased. Perhaps he could end this nonsense before it went much further.

“Do you think there are no Haradrim spies already in Gondor?” Faramir returned. “Perhaps we will gain a few more – but we will surely see greater numbers of Haradrim who are good men, who only wish to see their own land grow in peace and prosperity and their sons live to give them grandchildren. And we will gain greater understanding between our lands.”

“You always wish to see the best in Men, do you not?” Denethor mocked. “It blinds you to the blackness of their hearts.”

“If we do not strive to see the best in others, how can we expect it of them?”

“You cannot treat with the Southrons. They are barbarians. In all my dealings with them, they have only ever been warmongers and liars.”

“That is because we contest the borders. What dealings do we ever have in these days which are not with their soldiers? Yet they must have craftsmen and farmers, even as we do. The people of Gondor wish to be defended, but they do not wish to go to war if their own lands are not assailed. Surely it must be so with the Haradrim also?”

“My son, I thought I had raised you to be a warrior. Yet from your words and your actions it seems you would rather be a merchant. Have you not shown me that you think first of purchasing your own comfort– ” Denethor spat the word with cold fury. “ –and that your duty to Ithilien comes a poor second?”

Denethor felt the others around the table stir restlessly. Looking away from Faramir for a moment, he saw Boromir and Imrahil exchanging a puzzled glance. Faramir’s soft-spoken yet fierce answer drew his attention back.

“Nay, Lord, it is always Ithilien that is first in my thoughts and I would no more see it fall into the Enemy’s hands than you. And you did indeed raise a warrior, for do I not serve my land as my lord demands?”

 _But that is not what your heart would choose, is it, my son? You speak of duty to me, yet when you think I do not hear, you speak otherwise._

Denethor closed his eyes for a moment and felt again the pain that had assaulted him just that morning. Faramir's tone, quiet but intense, was very different from the joyful shout he had sent echoing down the hall outside the Council Chamber only an hour ago. A shout which made Denethor, following behind him unobserved, pause in the doorway.

"Mithrandir!"

Denethor hastily stepped back. It had been many years since Faramir had greeted him with such evident delight and he had no desire to see the pleasure his son would take in the wizard’s company. Yet he was curious to know what they would say to each other. This friendship between his son and the wizard who often seemed no friend of Gondor troubled him. He had long ago reconciled himself that a little underhand behaviour – he could not quite admit the word _spying_ to himself – was necessary if a ruler was to truly understand the hearts and minds of his subjects.

“Faramir. It is good to see you again,” he heard Mithrandir say. “I confess I was surprised not to run across you somewhere in the archives before now.”

From his vantage point, Denethor saw a shadow cross Faramir’s face. “I must spend my time in Ithilien, not in the libraries,” he said.

“Yes, I had heard you were newly promoted to Captain. My congratulations.”

“Am I to be congratulated when the post was marked out for me from the moment I was born?”

Denethor could hear the edge of bitterness in his son’s voice as he spoke. He reflected that Faramir was careful to conceal that thought when he spoke to his father.

“Yes, Faramir, you are to be congratulated. Gondor’s need is too pressing for you to be given your place if you did not deserve it on your own merits. And if the rumours I have heard of what has passed recently in Ithilien are true, the need is pressing indeed.”

Denethor saw Faramir’s face darken still further. “Aye. It does not go well with us at present in Ithilien. At least Anorien, the Southern fiefs and Osgiliath are quiet. Still,” he shook himself and straightened his shoulders, “it has always been thus, has it not? This is our fate in Gondor, to bear ever the brunt of the malice of the Dark Lord.”

“Yes. And some in Gondor more than others.” Gandalf reached out suddenly and gripped Faramir’s arm. “Take care of yourself, Faramir!”

Denethor saw a smile lighten his son’s face and was reminded of an almost-lost memory of Faramir as a small boy on the seashore at Dol Amroth, laughing, long ago.

“I will,“ Faramir now answered Mithrandir. “And if you are so concerned for me, perhaps I may beg a little of your time later? I confess, it would ease my heart to talk of old lore with you rather than our present danger with–.” Here Faramir checked himself and paused, before continuing in a calmer voice, “With the Council.”

Denethor was in no doubt what his son had originally been planning to say.

“Alas, my time here is short,” he now heard Mithrandir reply in a regretful tone, “but I am always pleased to spend a little of it with you, Faramir. Perhaps we might dine together this evening?”

“If I am not ordered otherwise, we will do so. I shall send a message to you.” Faramir bowed low to Mithrandir and strode away to the Council chamber.

“My lord?” Imrahil’s voice broke into his thoughts. Denethor opened his eyes, the image of Faramir’s respectful bow fading from his memory as he looked down the table at where his son faced him. The son who spoke of service and yet, it seemed to Denethor, offered his fealty only grudgingly and only in the way he saw fit.

“Yes, you serve me as I demand,” Denethor said abruptly. “And now my demand is that in future you slay all you find in Ithilien without the leave of the Lord of Gondor. There will be no exceptions. I will not suffer our enemies to travel openly up the roads the craft of Gondor made. What use are your men if we cannot hold Ithilien? Better they spend themselves to the bitter end than yield that land unfought.”

There was a heavy silence.

At last Faramir stirred and spoke, “My lord, I must protest! Such an order gives no weight to circumstance.”

“Enough!” Denethor cut him off. “Until, Captain, I can trust you to make choices which will not prove ill for Gondor, I cannot permit you so much discretion in your command.”

Faramir hesitated a moment. Then he bowed his head. “As my lord wills it,” he said quietly.


	2. The Captain

  
**  
_February 3008_   
**   


Faramir tried to concentrate on his uncle’s report but only got the general sense that Dol Amroth was dealing successfully with the Corsair threat. He was too busy rehearsing how he would describe his own failure. He glanced up, caught his father’s eye and looked away quickly. Perhaps it would have been better if he had spent more of the previous night trying to get his story straight. But then, he had already spent three days and nights trying to make sense of it.

He had certainly not felt prepared to recount the details of the ambush to his father when he had arrived in the City at dusk the previous evening. He lingered over grooming his horse, despite a stableman’s offer to handle the task, and then walked slowly into the Citadel. He decided to wash and change his clothes before he presented himself to make his report. His first as Captain. Learning his father was now at dinner, he seized on the excuse to delay further, although he knew a place would always be made for a captain who had urgent news. He convinced himself that his news was not so dire – or at least that there would be no further harm done by reporting it later rather than sooner.

Besides, he had no appetite and that would be remarked upon.

 _Which is worse? The fear I felt in Ithilien? Or the fear I feel now?_

He roamed along the walls of the Citadel for a while. It was quiet, only a few guards patrolling, too cold for all but the hardiest of those who lived here to be out taking a breath of air. Faramir stopped and looked up at the glittering stars that hung above him in the clear winter sky. The precise patterns of the constellations were comforting: known since childhood and to be relied upon when all other waymarks were gone. He felt the sharp edge of the wind, an east wind that seemed to carry on it the slight taint of the foul smokes that sometimes drifted across Ithilien from Mount Doom. He pulled his cloak around him more tightly.

A great cloud streamed westward, eating up the stars over Ithilien as it came. As the constellations disappeared, Faramir felt the cold settling into his bones, yet he did not go inside in search of warmth and company.

Where would he go, after all? He could no longer impose himself on the Rangers who had returned with him and who would now be racketing around the taverns in the lower circles. Not now that he was their Captain – and not in his present mood, which would dampen what cheer they were managing to find, as they toasted their dead comrades and rejoiced in their own survival. His brother and uncle would welcome him, but they would want to know the news from Ithilien, and speaking of it to them would be almost as painful as making his report to his father.

He had a sudden longing for undemanding company, for sweet smiles and soft, meaningless words and gentle arms around him. He looked up again at the stars still to be seen above the City, where the cloud had not yet reached. It seemed they marked his way even here. He smiled ruefully and turned, heading out of the Citadel and into the sixth circle.

He did not go often to the House of Starlight and it had been some while since his last visit. For one thing, he no longer spent much time in the City. For another, it was not that he did not find his visits pleasurable, but it was hard to make light and witty conversation when half his mind was still back in Ithilien, worrying about his troops. Even the physical release provided could rarely silence his ever-present concerns or loose the tension knotted deep within him. And he was not a man to simply take pleasure and not return it. On the whole, he found a good book and a glass of fine wine allowed him to relax with less effort.

He gave the maid his cloak and his request. He looked down, noticing a new rug beneath his feet that had not been here last time he visited. How long was that? And how long before that when there had been more than a few hours together when he could forget that he was the Steward’s son and simply be Faramir. The last time he had been to Dol Amroth, he guessed. How many summers was it now – two, three? – that he had been unable to make the trip. Thiri would be almost unrecognisable when he next saw her.

He heard the low murmur of men's and women's voices, punctuated by the occasional laugh, as the maid opened the door to the salon and announced that Nénar had a visitor who would see her privately. Then there was a sudden silence, followed by a low, feverish ripple of talk, in which he caught his own name. He looked up and realised that he had forgotten to move to where he could not be seen from inside the room.

 _Such carelessness will be your undoing one day._

The buzz of conversation was only cut off after Nénar, emerging with a welcoming smile on her face, closed the door behind her.

“Will you not come into the salon for a while?” she asked.

“Not tonight, Nénar.” He forced a smile in return, although it felt more like a grimace.

Accepting his wishes, she took his hand, her skin very soft and white against his hardened, weather-beaten knuckles, and led him to her suite.

“Something to drink, my lord?” She had picked up a decanter and goblet.

“No.” He hadn’t touched a drop since the ambush. It would be too easy to numb what he felt, too easy to lose himself for a while, and then have to deal with the consequences when he was sober.

If he would ever be sober again once he started.

Nénar put down the decanter and crossed over to him. “Then come, make yourself comfortable.”

Her skilled hands unbuckled his belt. She laid it aside and turned back to begin working on the fastenings of his tunic. He laid his hand over hers.

“No,” he said again. Now that he was here, he found he did not want the comforts of the flesh.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “You do not want company, wine or embraces, my lord. What do you want?”

“I am not sure, Nénar,” he said. He felt very tired. “Perhaps only to sit and talk with you a while.”

He could sense her uncertainty at his odd behaviour, but she did not comment or question it further. After all, it was not as if he was requesting anything she was not willing to give. She simply led him over to the couch at the foot of the bed and he allowed her to settle him with a cushion behind his back.

The room seemed almost indecently luxurious after the hard earth of Ithilien and the sparse comforts of Henneth Annûn. He felt he did not deserve to sit in front of a blazing fire that was taking the chill out of his bones when so many others lay cold forever.

He realised that he had been staring at the flames, lost in thought, for some minutes and that Nénar was repeating a question. She had arranged herself next to him, close but not touching. He turned and saw she was frowning again at his inattention. He had said he wanted to talk, but he had nothing to say. What words did he have for this lovely woman, who surely knew neither death nor despair?

 _Why am I here?_

“Will you be in the City long?” Nénar had been asking. He could see she was struggling to decide what to do or say next. This was not how he usually was with her. This was almost certainly not how any of the other men who came to the House of Starlight behaved.

“I do not know,” he said slowly.

 _Will father take my commission away? Will he find some excuse to assign me to work under uncle’s direction? Or perhaps he will send me on some diplomatic mission where my courage and resolve will not be an issue?_

“I do not know what orders the Lord of Gondor may have for me,” he told her. “I may need to travel south for a while before I return to Ithilien. We need new recruits.”

“Did you not swear in new troops after you were made Captain last month?”

“Aye, I did. And I am sure you will hear the news soon enough, if it has not already spread round your salon. Fifteen youths – and six of them are dead already. Another thirty and more of their older brethren lost, and twice as many more who carry some wound. Eight of whom will not fight again. I have not had a very good first month as Captain, Nénar.”

“Oh, Faramir!” He heard the tender concern in her voice. She reached out a comforting hand to his cheek and he turned his head and pressed his face into her palm.

“I need fifty new recruits and they need for their Captain to learn not to kill them so quickly,” he said. His voice was raw and there was a lump in his throat. To his shame, he felt tears leaking out of his eyes. The second time in three days. He turned away from Nénar and wiped the back of his hand roughly across his face.

He felt Nénar’s hand on his shoulder. “It must have been hard for you,” she said. He heard the pity in her voice.

“Hard?" he said bitterly. “I am not lying dead and buried in a ditch. How can it be hard for me?”

He felt her hand tighten on his shoulder as she tried to comfort him. “Do you think you are the first commander to have been troubled by the death of his men?” she asked softly.

He swung back round. ”I led them there,” he cried. “I did not know. I did not know how it would be, but I led them there. They are dead because of me.”

He saw again the bodies, those they had been able to find. Men he had known ten years and boys he had known little more than ten days. At least the orcs had not had a chance to despoil them. The half-frozen ground had resisted pick and shovel, while they had stripped their comrades of gear that could serve another man, and collected personal effects to be returned to families. The ink was near solid in his pen and he had to breathe on it again and again to keep it flowing as he struggled to list their names and what had been recovered. And the names of the half dozen they did not recover. He had cast the first earth and watched it patter across the indifferent features of a man who had saved his life five years before.

He could not stop his tears now.

He put his head in her lap, his grief and pain flowing out of him, while she gently stroked his hair.

When his sobs at last passed away, he lay quiet for a while, soothed by her soft touch, hovering on the edge of sleep. The events of the past few days receded and he remembered his mother’s voice, singing him a lullaby as she coaxed him back to sleep after a bad dream, his small hand clasped in her warm and comforting one.

At last he brought himself back to the present and sat up, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

“You must think me a fool,” he said, his head turned away from Nénar.

“Nay, my lord.” She rose and fetched a basin of water and held it for him while he cleaned the smudges from his face. When he was done, she sat herself beside him again.

“Is there no other comfort you would have from me?” she asked him, laying her hand lightly on his arm.

“Not tonight, Nénar,” he said. He reached out and touched her cheek. “You are no less lovely tonight than any other night. It is I who am lacking.”

“I do not think you are ever lacking, my lord,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “But perhaps you feel overmuch.”

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But it seems I cannot be otherwise.” He smiled sadly at her as he took her hand and placed it back in her lap.

He stood up and made to move away, then turned back and stooped to kiss her on the brow. “Thank you,” he said. He did not know if the simple words would convey the extent of his gratitude for the relief she had brought him, but they were all he had.

He picked up his belt from where she had laid it and walked downstairs. The maid was busy answering the door, so he occupied himself with fastening the belt back on while he waited for her to return and find his cloak. He looked up incuriously at the newcomer who had entered the hall. He froze.

 _Father? Here? Now?_

He felt like an errant pupil caught out in a lie. He remembered an evening when he had neglected learning his Sindarin grammar to read an account of the travels of Tar-Aldarion and his voyages between Númenor and Middle-earth. The next day, his father had made one of his snap inspections and sat with an ever-deepening frown as Faramir stumbled over his conjugations. He had received a sharp lecture that had set his head ringing and been given twice as much to learn by the following day, with the warning that, if he did not pass the following day’s test sufficiently, still worse punishments would follow. Faramir had promised himself that evening that he would never again put his pleasure before his duty.

Yet here he was, in the House of Starlight, with his report still unmade, feeling again like a ten-year-old boy who could not conjugate the past pluperfect of _linno_. Except now he was a grown man and had no excuses – and rather more was at stake than his ability to engage in scholarly discourse.

He finished buckling his belt while he tried to decide what to say. In the end, he settled for a simple greeting. As usual, his father got straight to the point, bringing up the matter of the report. Also as usual, his father’s phrasing left Faramir with little idea of what was expected of him. This was hardly the most appropriate place, but did his father want him to offer to report here in the House of Starlight? Or should he suggest they adjourn back to the Citadel? Or propose they speak the next morning? Faramir was still debating the options and trying to work out which would anger his father least when Denethor dismissed him and moved off up the stairs.

Now, staring down at the top of the Council table to avoid catching his father’s eye again, Faramir had time to reflect on the other aspect of the meeting that had kept sleep away the previous night.

He had long known that his father probably paid visits to the House of Starlight. His uncle had made it quite clear when bringing Faramir for his first visit nearly ten years ago that, if the Steward’s family required companionship, they were to seek it here and not with Citadel staff or the daughters of respectable families. Also that it was not healthy to deny natural impulses and needs: while overindulgence would not be tolerated, neither would complete abstinence while Faramir was unmarried.

Faramir had not been comfortable speculating much on how these rules applied to other members of his family, but it had not been hard to infer that his father would have patronised the place before his marriage and might have resumed his visits after the death of Faramir’s mother.

It was somewhat different to be presented with incontrovertible evidence of the fact.

Faramir broke off his musings as he realised his father was thanking Imrahil and that it was now his own turn to report. He began with the comforting litany of troop deployments, intelligence on the Enemy’s movements and reports of skirmishes. At last he had no choice but to speak of the ambush.

He was startled when his father interrupted him, the first sentence barely out of his mouth. It seemed he was not the only one, as a rustle of papers and sharply drawn breaths swept around the room. The Steward did not wait for the noise to subside before he threw his accusation at his Captain.

“Do you report that the Dark Lord at last draws new strength to his armies in preparation for some greater assault? Such news should not have waited until this morning.” Faramir heard the anger in his father’s voice and was stung that Denethor should think so little of him that he would neglect to report something of that magnitude.

“I do not bring such news,” he snapped back, for once not thinking about his response before he made it. Only after the words were out did he realise he did not want to argue with his father about his behaviour last night in front of the Council. He turned towards the other Council members and quickly continued with his report, hoping his father would let the matter go.

“This party was not a war band,” he explained.

As he described the composition of the Enemy group and began to talk about the ambush, the memories came sharp and clear before his mind’s eye. The moment of uncertainty as the Haradrim and orcs puzzled to make sense of their falling comrades; then the wild rush of the orcs as they charged the Rangers. It had been easy to pick them off, yet there were so many that his troops could not prevent them from reaching their own positions. And when they did, the orcs returned the slaughter in full measure.

He still did not understand that strange frenzy. Or what had happened next.

He paused in his report, swallowing. Even after he had spoken to Dairuin about it, back in Henneth Annûn, it made little sense.

He had been writing letters to parents and wives – the first batch of many, he did not doubt – when Dairuin had come to give him the last reports of the day. Faramir had been glad to abandon the pretence that he was making much progress with the letters - and not merely hiding behind the curtains that partly screened the recess from the rest of the cave – and had waved his second-in-command into the seat opposite him.

“Have a drink,” he said, pushing a flagon across the writing desk.

Dairuin left the flagon where it was but raised an eyebrow. “Have you had much yourself, Captain?”

Faramir, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, looked up at the older man. “No,” he said at last, with a wry smile. “Not a drop.” He gestured at the papers in front of him. “I need a clear head for this.”

“How goes it?”

“Slowly. Though I write nothing but platitudes. _Your son died well in the service of Gondor._ Their parents will never know how they died. I am not sure I will ever forget.”

“A good commander does not.”

“A good commander would not lose more than a tenth of all his troops in his first action,” Faramir said wearily. “A good commander would not….”

He fell silent.

After the quiet had stretched out for a long while, Dairuin said tentatively, “Captain?”

At last, Faramir looked up at him, facing him squarely. “A good commander would not feel sick to his stomach and wish to flee the battlefield. Or order a retreat from ground that gave advantage.”

Dairuin said nothing for a moment. Then he reached out and uncorked the flagon and filled the Captain’s silver goblet with wine. “We were overmatched by a foe that would have overwhelmed us,” he said quietly. “Retreat was the only option a good commander could choose.” He paused before adding. “Especially when his Lieutenant also felt sick to the stomach and wished to flee the battlefield.”

He held Faramir’s gaze for a moment. Faramir suddenly found tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He turned his head away, a little embarrassed and yet also relieved. Dairuin got up from the table and went to get another goblet, giving Faramir a few moments alone.

When Dairuin had settled again and poured himself a drink, Faramir asked quietly, “Does this happen often?”

“Nay,” Dairuin shook his head and took a sip of wine. He savoured it while he thought about his answer. “These woods teem with foul things and there are ever more of them of late – but what I felt last night, I have never felt before in thirty years of service in Ithilien. A blackness came into my mind and I thought not to defend myself but only to crawl and hide.”

Dairuin’s words brought an echo of the same chill back to Faramir and he shivered. When he attended again, he realised Dairuin was saying, “It was your horn call that roused me. And when we had retreated, I felt as if I had woken from some evil dream.”

Faramir and Dairuin looked at each other. Then Faramir reached over and clasped Dairuin’s arm for a moment and nodded. There was no need to say more.

After Dairuin had taken another drink, he asked, “Think you there was a sorcerer amongst the Southrons?”

Faramir was playing with the stem of his goblet but had not yet touched the contents. Now he said slowly, “Perhaps. The Black Numenoreans learnt many evil arts from the Dark Lord, if old tales be true. And I saw one amongst them who bore no gold and jewellery such as the Southrons delight in, yet seemed to be their leader. He had a hood pulled around his face and I could not see him clearly, but when he turned his face toward me….” Faramir’s voice had dropped to a whisper. He sat still, staring at the drink in front of him for a long time. Then he shook himself and looked up.

“Even if it were sorcery, there is little we can do against it. And they will surely not have such a one with every party they send forth. Besides,” Faramir gave a hard-edged laugh, “would you have me return to my father’s Council and report that the new Captain of Ithilien blenched like a maiden before the enemy?”

 _The Council._

Faramir snapped out of his reverie and focused on the faces staring at him. He realized they were waiting for him to continue.

He glanced at his father and saw that a wary, calculating look had settled across his features. Faramir knew he was being judged. He must not be found wanting. With an effort, he continued his report, describing the retreat and his decision not to attack again but to send scouts to track the party.

He did not speak of his reasons for that choice: although the strange feelings had evaporated after they had disengaged from the orcs, Faramir had feared he would betray the same weakness in their next encounter. The orcs had been so determined – and he had not. If he could not lead his men calmly and with a clear mind, he would doom them all.

However, all he said before the Council was, “I did not think, my lord, that it was wise to bring them against us again and waste more of our lives in an action I felt had no chance of success. We followed them to see their course. Just ere daybreak, they reached the crossroads and turned towards Minas Morgul.”

There, the words were out. He had told all, or all he could. He waited for his father to speak, for the condemnation he knew would fall. It had been a poor encounter and he had handled it poorly. He did not expect the Steward to treat a Captain more lightly simply because the Captain was also his son.

At last Denethor looked up. Faramir met his gaze steadily, accepting.

“So,” his father said, his voice as chilly as the cold snows that decked the peaks of the White Mountains, “they will make the alliance. And we will face the full might of Harad as well as Mordor. And yet you might have prevented this.”

Faramir could not help flinching. He had been so absorbed in his own failure as Captain that he had not considered the broader implications.

 _I have so much to learn_ , he thought. _If I get the chance._

His father and uncle were arguing about whether the death of the ambassadors would have accomplished any good. Now Denethor turned back and made Faramir’s failure clear.

“You should not have let them escape so lightly.”

Faramir could do no more than restate the reasons for his choice. “My lord, I felt it was a fight we could not win, nor even hurt the enemy enough to be worth the risk to my men,” he said.

His father’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “So you say,” he said, his contempt evident in every syllable.

Faramir could not face that disdain, yet he could not justify himself. How could he describe that fear? The fear he was sure now all his men had felt, yet which was so like a dream that, when he recalled it, even he half-believed it must never have happened. Under his father’s intense scrutiny, he dropped his eyes and stammered some excuse about not wishing to sacrifice lives recklessly or needlessly.

Denethor pushed his arguments aside, returning again to the consequences of an alliance between Mordor and Harad.

 _Why did I not consider that?_ Faramir wondered. _After all, we have discussed it before, father and I._ Still, it was too late now. All he could do was acknowledge the fault – and do what he could to repair it.

“I cannot undo what is done,” he said quietly. “Yet there may still be a way to disrupt the alliance. We have spoken of it before….”

“No! It is a foolish notion and I will not entertain it.” Faramir saw the cold warning in Denethor’s eyes and realised he had made another mistake. He had not understood when he had informally outlined his plan many months ago that his father had been so opposed to it. He had taken Denethor’s admonition that the plan was unworkable as an injunction to research more deeply into the topic. Clearly he had erred.

Before he could apologise and withdraw the idea, his brother and uncle and the others were taking an interest. An interest his father soon moved to suppress.

“I think, my lord,” Faramir heard him say, “you will find your nephew’s folly has been increasing of late. He certainly cannot always be trusted to fulfil his duties if he is… distracted.”

The room suddenly seemed very hot to Faramir. He could feel a flush rising up his face. He saw his uncle give him a quizzical look.

 _Please father, do not make me explain what you mean. Do not make me explain what I did – or did not do – last night. Or why._

His uncle did not press the matter of Faramir’s behaviour but did insist on hearing the plan and his father at last conceded. Faramir wondered why. _Is he expecting me to make an even greater fool of myself?_ Pulling himself together, he took a deep breath and began to outline his notions for re-establishing trade with Harad. Despite his father’s dismissal of the idea earlier, Faramir knew he finally had a chance to put at least part a treasured project into action.

Since he first crossed the river ten years ago, he had seen the abandoned farms and villages, the overgrown fields and orchards, and the weed-infested millraces and duckponds. His heart had ached to bring them back to life, to resettle them, to see again children laughing in the farmyards and wives welcoming home their husbands from the harvest. _Are we to cede Ithilien to Mordor in all but name forever?_ If they could neutralise the Haradrim threat and turn their attention more closely on the orcs, perhaps a little land near the river could be made safe and reclaimed for Gondor.

Faramir did not realise as he spoke how much his manner had changed from his earlier reserve.

Now he looked to Hurin of the Keys for confirmation of his point about taxes. Forlong was quick to pick up the issue - and received a sharp reproach from the Steward for his pains. Faramir gave the older Lord a sympathetic look. He had been on the receiving end of his father’s rebukes often enough to know how painful they could be. Yet he had also been at the Council where the taxes had been discussed and he knew how vital every penny was to keep his men in the field and fed and equipped to even the minimum standard.

Doing his best to ignore his father’s intervention, Faramir continued his appeal to the Council, building his argument until he concluded with his proposition. “Would it not,” he asked them, “be wise to offer safe passage through Gondor for Haradrim ships and caravans and to welcome craftsmen who wish to bring their goods and their skills to Minas Tirith?”

Looking around the table, he saw smiles and nods of approval.

 _Maybe some good will come of all this after all. Maybe some wider purpose will be served by so many deaths._

Then Denethor’s curt voice cut across his moment of quiet satisfaction. “And offer safe passage and welcome to Haradrim spies, who will eavesdrop in our streets and count the numbers of our companies?”

Faramir saw the interest around the table falter. _No!_ he though angrily. _Surely father cannot think that the threat of spies alone is reason enough to reject the plan? We have too often discussed the present danger of informers for him to believe it would pose much greater risk if there were more Haradrim in the City._

“Do you think there are no Haradrim spies already in Gondor?” he asked Denethor. He tried to mask his anger at his father’s wilful obstruction and keep his voice courteous. “Perhaps we will gain a few more – but we will surely see greater numbers of Haradrim who are good men, who only wish to see their own land grow in peace and prosperity and their sons live to give them grandchildren. And we will gain greater understanding between our lands.

“You always wish to see the best in Men, do you not? It blinds you to the blackness of their hearts.”

 _And you see the worst,_ Faramir thought sadly. _You see their desires and their needs – and how you may twist those feelings to serve your ends, to serve Gondor’s ends. You do not see what they may become – greater and better – if we give them our pity and our trust. It is as well I am your second son, is it not? For I could never use others as you do, spending them in the cause without thought to the consequences for them._

Even as he thought this, Faramir fought to change his father’s mind. “If we do not strive to see the best in others, how can we expect it of them?” he pleaded.

Yet, as always, he had little success. He tried to debate the merits of the Haradrim but it seemed his father tired of the discussion and would end it.

His words struck deep into Faramir’s heart. “Have you not shown me,” Denethor asked, “that you think first of purchasing your own comfort and that your duty to Ithilien comes a poor second?”

Faramir did not notice the uneasiness amongst the other councillors at this attack but simply stared at his father in disbelief. How could his father think such things? _If I neglected my duty and thought only of my own comfort, I would be lying dead drunk in a tavern somewhere,_ he thought angrily. _If I followed my heart, would I not have inkstains on my hands rather than sword and bow calluses? Father, how could you think I would put my comfort and my needs before those of Gondor?_

 _Do I not serve as best I may, even if my best is not sufficient?_

He could not keep silent under such a reproach.

“Nay, Lord,” he said, his voice quiet yet fierce as he in turn rebuked his father for doubting him, “it is always Ithilien that is first in my thoughts and I would no more see it fall into the Enemy’s hands than you. And you did indeed raise a warrior, for do I not serve my land as my lord demands?”

He saw his father close his eyes. There was anger etched on his face, but Faramir, watching carefully, saw it fade to grief. _Oh father, why do you make us tear at each other? Why do you find it so hard to accept my love?_

The silence stretched out and still Denethor did not speak. Eventually Imrahil cleared his throat. “My lord?” he asked.

Denethor’s eyes snapped open. Faramir saw that they were now filled only with contempt, as his father glared down the table at him and answered his question. “Yes, you serve me as I demand,” he said, his voice harsh. “And now my demand is that in future you slay all you find in Ithilien without the leave of the Lord of Gondor. There will be no exceptions. I will not suffer our enemies to travel openly up the roads the craft of Gondor made. What use are your men if we cannot hold Ithilien? Better they spend themselves to the bitter end than yield that land unfought.”

Faramir’s mind reeled. He could not believe his father could give such an order.

What if they encountered a party of Haradrim refugees? The records had contained little on how Harad governed itself, but Faramir could not believe an alliance with Mordor would go completely unopposed by the very people he wished them to trade with. Such people might have valuable intelligence. And if there were women and children with them, was he to slaughter them too?

 _And if we have another encounter like the last?_

Was he to spend his forces, to the last man, on a futile assault in which they could not fight well and which they certainly could not win?

 _I must speak,_ he thought. _My own honour and my father’s good opinion matter less than the lives of my men, or the lives of innocents, or the greater good of Gondor._

The other councillors were still silent, apparently unable or unwilling to respond. Faramir took a moment longer to screw up his courage – _may the Valar help me!_ \- before he made his challenge. “My lord, I must protest!” he said, “Such an order gives no weight to circumstance.”

Denethor cut him off before he could say more. “Enough!” he snapped. “Until, Captain, I can trust you to make choices which will not prove ill for Gondor, I cannot permit you so much discretion in your command.”

Faramir knew that tone and look. The Lord of Gondor would be master of his own Council and would not be gainsaid. To argue now would only strengthen his resolve. All Faramir could do was hope to speak to him later in private and persuade him to rescind the order.

Faramir hesitated a moment, then bowed his head. “As my lord wills it,” he said quietly.

***

 **  
_10 March 3019_   
**

They had ridden hard through the gathering gloom and the horses were near to faltering. Faramir, too, was bone weary, not just from the pace of the journey but from lack of sleep: the damp cold striking up from the ground the first night had made his rest uneasy; and his growing doubt through the second had made him rise ere dawn to watch the thick smokes and fumes from the Dark Land creeping ever onwards.

Often, throughout the day, he had thought of the Halflings and wondered how they fared. Did this foul cloud of the Enemy aid or hinder them? What doom was the creature Gollum leading them to? Why Cirith Ungol, why that way? And if they made it through the passes into the Dark Land, what then?

 _Did I do the right thing?_ he wondered. _Or was there more I should have done?_

The question returned to haunt him at intervals throughout the tiresome hours. In between, he chiefly consoled himself with memories of his brother. His mind ran back into the days of their youth – seaside holidays in Dol Amroth and long talks on the walls of the Citadel as the sun set and fighting shoulder to shoulder as the dark fell – and then forwards to the time when all he could know of his brother’s deeds would come from the words of others and not from Boromir’s own lips. And his mind went on, to the bitter tidings the Halflings had brought him.

 _Ah, Boromir, my heart longs to know that you met your final test with strength and honour, that the peace I saw in your face was truth indeed. Little chance, it seems to me now, that I will ever speak to one who knows what was latest in your mind and heart._

Only once or twice did he think about his father and the unwelcome report he must make.

To speak of the three travellers and how he had given them succour and let them go would alone bring down his father’s wrath. Ten years the law had stood. In the first years, Faramir had tried many times to contest it, with no success. And after his father’s anger on the last occasion, he did not try again.

Three times since then he had broken the command, the first two without his father’s knowledge. Once a Rohirrim lad, bathing with his horse in the Anduin, had been caught by an undertow and swept nearly to Cair Andros. The second time, they came across Haradrim: a man, his wife and two children, fleeing across the Poros. The man had told him many things willingly and his words had proved true when Faramir had sent his most skilled scouts to confirm them. His news of a Haradrim attack had on its own saved many lives. Faramir had found the man a boat similar to those used by the Southrons and helped him disguise it after their fashion. Then he sent them to make landfall on the coast of Lebennin, with an oath never to speak of their encounter.

This time, he could not conceal the truth. Yet he would take the consequences of that action. It was the tidings of the Ring that he feared most to speak of.

 _I love you father, but I cannot think as you do. You would use all that came into your hands, even the weapons of the Enemy, to defend our land. Yet would it be saved if we used such arts?_

 _The land is more than just these beloved hills and streams. It is more than its people, though they must survive to carry the essence of Gondor in their hearts. Nay, it is that essence we must defend. Not her scrolls and her stones, but her spirit: reverence for life, pity for those who suffer, the hope of redemption for those who have fallen into evil._

 _If we abandon what makes us Gondor to throw down the Dark Lord, will he be truly vanquished? And will what remains be worth the saving?_

Faramir remember the vision he had seen: the armies of the Enemy fleeing before his sword; his father hailing him as saviour of Gondor before all the people, embracing him warmly; the harvest celebrations as they brought home to barn and byre the bounty of the wide well-tilled acres of Ithilien.

 _Kill them_ the Ring had murmured. _All you have to do is kill them. It will not be so hard. Just draw your sword, a simple thrust or two, and all this will be yours…._

And then he saw the bright blood spilling from the dead bodies of two small travellers who could not have stood against his host of men, despite courage and faith and love beyond measure.

 _No!_ his heart had cried. _I will not sacrifice Gondor to save a land and a people that would not be_ my _land and_ my _people, where nothing would grow fair or bear fruit or flower again without the Enemy’s taint._

Now, as the walls of Minas Tirith loomed near, he thought: _Things may prove ill for Gondor and it may be we will not weather this storm. Yet if I had chosen otherwise, I think it would only have hastened our end. And in choosing as I did, we may still hold fast a little of what we hold most dear._

Yet his heart seemed ever heavier.

 _But will father see it so?_

Nor could he shake the sorrow that he must speak to his father of the more beloved son’s fall. His mind slid away from the thought of how he would tell of that. Reluctantly he pulled it back.

 _Am I still such a coward? Have I not learnt the foolishness of not speaking what must be spoken? Would I now be preparing to deliver news of my disobedience if I had been less weak, if I had confessed my fear? Nay, I must speak all._

 _After all, if I am to meet my doom soon, it will be on the fields of Gondor, not in the halls of my forefathers_.

They were less than a mile distant from the gate. It would not be long before he would be making his report.

Suddenly he clutched at his pommel, feeling faint and chilled. He shook his head to try and clear it. A half-familiar wave of fear assaulted him.

 _Here? Now?_ he asked himself in confusion.

With a single harsh cry, the five Nazgûl hovering overhead came dropping from the sky.

His horse shied away from the foul reek that accompanied them. As Faramir fought to master and calm his mount, he reached for his sword.

 _We will not be defeated. Gondor will stand!_


End file.
